


A Protector From the Past

by MorticiaYouSpokeFrench



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Destiny, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23981944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorticiaYouSpokeFrench/pseuds/MorticiaYouSpokeFrench
Summary: Unbeknownst to both, Sansa and Sandor share a connection through an incident from their pasts. When the story comes out, it has far-reaching consequences.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 87
Kudos: 196





	1. Origins

**Author's Note:**

> I had to play around with the timeline in order for this to work. This story begins a few months before the Greyjoy Rebllion with a Sansa who is six year old and a Sandor who is ten.

Sansa watched with wide-eyed delight as rolling green hills and winding rivers passed by the window of their moving carriage. The Westerlands were very beautiful, and so different from her own home up north; Sansa felt like she was in one of her beautifully-illustrated storybooks. She could see in her mind's eye a beautiful maiden wandering through these lush fields, weaving flower crowns and singing to herself. A passing prince would hear the singing and, intrigued, follow it until he set eyes on the beautiful maiden and fell in love at first sight. Sansa gave a heartfelt sigh of longing.

A mommy and a baby deer appeared in the nearby field, and she turned to her father excitedly, intending to point it out to him, but changed her mind upon seeing his tired frown and pinched look. A little worm of guilt squirmed in her tummy over how much she was enjoying herself when her father was so clearly stressed and worried about the need for this journey. Still, Sansa reminded herself, she was helping her father by coming with him.

Her parents hadn't told her much about why she needed to travel to Casterly Rock with her father; they thought she was too young to understand. Sansa, however, knew more than her parents suspected. She read a lot of books, after all, and books made one knowledgeable. She knew that the trip was caused by information that her father had received by raven and had made him look very grim after reading it. She also knew it had to do with someone called 'Greyjoy'.

"We need to get the drop on Greyjoy," she had heard her father tell her mother the day the journey was decided upon. "Balon can't know that we have prior information regarding his plans, or we will lose the element of surprise. A visit with my close friend Robert, accompanied by Sansa, and with the rumors of a possible betrothal will raise his suspicions far less than an urgent ride to King's Landing accompanied only by soldiers. If we are to keep him complacent, we must-"

He had stopped speaking then, having noticed Sansa listening, but it had been enough for Sansa to understand everything: Her clever father going to outwit Greyjoy like the knight Roland had outwitted the evil dragon who had kidnapped Princess Elda. If Sansa came along with her father, Greyjoy wouldn't be able to guess that her father was planning a battle, because girls did not participate in wars.

Sansa had been happy to accompany her father on this journey, and even happier when informed that she was to meet a real prince once they reached Casterly Rock, where the royal family was vacationing. She spent the rest of the morning speculating happily on what the prince would look like and if she would rather he have dark or blonde hair, and was so absorbed in her thoughts that she was surprised when the carriage jerked to a halt.

"Are we there?" Sansa asked her father excitedly.

He gave her a tired but warm smile. "Not quite yet. This is Clegane land. We are close, but not close enough to make it there before nightfall. We will sleep here and proceed in the morning. I'm going to go help supervise as they set up camp. You may leave the carriage if you like, but don't wander far off, and don't get into any trouble."

That last part was a joke. Sansa never got into any trouble. She was the most obedient child of all her siblings, which was why it was decided that Septa Mordane would stay in Winterfell with them rather than accompany Sansa on the journey. Sansa was trusted to be obedient and keep out of trouble all on her own, and it made her very proud.

As her father got out and began calling out orders and helping to unload the wagon, Sansa headed over to a nearby patch of wildflowers and began picking them to weave a crown. A patch further away, with vibrant yellow colors caught her eye, and she wandered even further, singing to herself, and utterly absorbed in the beauty around her.

She had reached a shady little clump of trees when she heard a meow.

"Kitty?" asked Sansa excitedly, looking around for the source of the sound. The meow sounded again, and there was something pitiful about it. Maybe the kitty was in distress, and Sansa could rescue it and then it would become her friend!

She headed towards the source of the sound, and when she walked around a big tree, she saw someone.

The meow sounded again, but when Sansa looked in the direction it came from, all she could see was a brown tied-up sack. "Kitty?" she asked uncertainly, and at the sound of her voice, the person, who had been crouched over a pile of kindling, starting a fire, straightened up and turned around to look at her.

It was a very big boy, who looked to be in his teens. He smiled when he spotted Sansa, and something about that smile made Sansa feel frightened.

"Well, well, well," the boy smirked. "A stupid little girl. What are you doing here, little girl?"

"I- I thought I heard a kitty, I was curious," Sansa mumbled, avoiding the boy's narrowed eyes. "I'll go now."

She turned around, but her wrist was caught by the boy.

"Don't go yet," he said, smiling even wider. "Don't you want to see what happens to curious little girls?"

The hand around her wrist tightened, and Sansa whimpered in pain. "No, I don't. Please, let me go!"

The big boy laughed, and opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by a cry. "Leave her alone!"

A second boy had come running up behind them, and was glaring hatefully at the boy holding Sansa.

The big boy let go of Sansa's wrist to turn around and face the other boy. For a moment, Sansa's eyes met her savior's grey ones. "Run!" he told her.

Sansa didn't need telling twice. She sprinted back the way she came as fast as she could. The boy who had rescued her had been tall and broad, but he was dwarfed by the scary boy, who was clearly some years his senior. He didn't stand a chance against the big boy, and Sansa knew in her bones that something bad was about to happen. Fighting to ignore the stitch in her chest, Sansa picked up speed.

From behind her, Sansa heard a bloodcurdling scream of unmistakable agony. She did what she thought would have been impossible a second ago and ran even faster, tears blurring her vision as what felt like a knife stabbed at her lungs. She didn't remember having wandered so far from the camp! Oh, where were they?

Then, she saw them. "Help!" she yelled, running towards them at full sprint, "Please! Help!"

A second later a group of men was crowding around her, and amidst rib-shattering sobs and desperate gasps for air, Sansa managed to say "A boy...Attacked me... Another boy there... He's hurting him... I heard him screaming... Over there."

"Come with me!" Jory yelled at the men around him, and they set off at a sprint towards the direction in which Sansa had pointed. Being able to run much faster than Sansa on her little legs, they were gone almost immediately.

More people, who had heard the commotion gathered around to hear what the noise was about, but Sansa was crying almost too hard to speak anymore. She merely shook her head at the men around her, eyes streaming. Then, her father pushed through, and Sansa leaped into his arms.

"What is it, sweetling?" he asked her tenderly. "Tell me what happened."

Sansa made herself be very brave, took a deep breath, and related everything to her father, including how Jory and some men had gone to help. "He was screaming so loud," Sansa sobbed at the end of her story. "I know that boy did something ho-horrible to him."

Her father looked very grim.

"Rorick," he said, turning to a man by his side. "I need you to saddle up a horse and prepare to take the boy; he will probably be injured. We must take him to a maester with the utmost speed. The nearest one will be at Clegane Keep, on that hill yonder." He pointed out the building to Rorick, who nodded, and rushed off immediately. "Take Wind!" her father called after him. "He's our fastest horse!"

Rorick shouted back an agreement as he ran towards the horses.

At that moment, Jory and the others returned. Two of them were carrying the boy, and Sansa could hear from afar his shrieks and sobs of agony. She tried to come closer and see what had happened to him, but her father had grabbed her head and buried it in his stomach, not allowing her to look. Sansa trembled at the sounds coming from him, but only when the boy had been passed off to Rorick and they had ridden off did her father let go of Sansa and allow her to look around.

"Jory!" her father called. "I want you to ride after them. Make sure the boy is getting proper care. It must be made clear to the maester that no expenses are to be spared in caring for this boy. His is doubtlessly one of the commoners from the village; his parents might not be able to pay the fee for his medicines. Tell the maester that the expenses for his treatment are to be covered entirely by me. Additionally, I want a message to be left for the boy, as we will not have time to linger here until the boy is well enough for me to speak to personally. Leave it with the maester; he will be able to read it to the boy if the boy cannot read. Write that if the boy wishes to squire for house Stark I will arrange for it. If there is any other service or favor I can preform for him it will be done, he need only ask. This boy saved my daughter, I will see him rewarded."

"Yes, my lord," Jory nodded. "I will see it done."

"Good," said Ned. "Now, what of the attacker? Did you apprehend him?"

"Aye. It took three of our men to pull him off the boy, and another to subdue him. I have them watching over him now, and another of the men is bringing rope. Once he is restrained, they will bring him to camp."

"No!" said her father, sounding angry. "He will not come anywhere near my daughter. Have him brought to Clegane Keep as well. As this incident occurred on his land, it is Clegane's job to administer justice. I trust he will see the boy appropriately punished."

"I will see to it immediately," Jory replied, and he set off.

The next few hours were a miserable blur, as Sansa followed her father around the camp, not daring to let him out of her sight, and sobbing and sniffling intermittently. It was only after night fell and Sansa retired with her father to the tent that Jory returned.

"What news?" asked Ned, as Jory entered the tent.

"Will the boy who saved me be alright?" asked Sansa.

"The maester has reason to believe that the boy will survive," Jory replied delicately.

Sansa was not stupid. She knew that if it had to be stated that the boy had a chance of surviving, his injuries had been bad enough to put him in danger of death. "What happened to him?" she asked fearfully. "What did that other boy do?"

Jory cast her a hesitant look, and then looked to her father meaningfully.

"Sansa, step out of the tent for a moment," her father commanded her.

"I want to know!" Sansa declared, stomping her foot.

"Now, Sansa!" her father barked, and she deflated at his sternness, walking out quietly. She was still a good girl, after all.

A few minutes later, Jory and her father emerged from the tent, and before Sansa could say anything, her father had gathered her up in his arms. For a strange moment, it felt to Sansa like he was shaking.

"My precious Sansa," he whispered into her hair. "My sweet, sweet girl. You're alright. You're safe."

Sansa thought she felt a wetness at the top of her head, but couldn't think where it might have come from.


	2. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter comes from the A Game of Thrones, chapter 29.

_Ten Years Later_

Sansa walked behind Sandor Clegane, trying to fight her disappointment with how the evening had turned out. She had had such high hopes for The Hand's Tourney. The romance and excitement had captured her imagination, and the sight of all the handsome knights had made her heart flutter with excitement. But the tourney had been tainted with the brutal death of Ser Hugh, and the subsequent feast which had begun so well, with her betrothed being attentive and courteous, ended with him foisting Sansa off on the Hound, not even bothering with a goodbye.

Joffrey was a prince, though, Sansa reminded herself. He was probably far more sophisticated than her, used to staying up late for lavish parties attended by the most prominent members of the court. He should not have to leave when he was enjoying himself just because Sansa needed an escort. It was selfish of her to have expected him to curtail his amusement for her sake, Sansa reprimanded herself firmly. Besides, it wasn't Joffrey's fault that Sansa was frightened of the Hound; he had no way of knowing.

Sansa dared a look at her scowling escort, but immediately had to look away. His scars frightened her so. His whole person did. She reminded herself, though, that a true lady would not notice his face, and made an attempt at polite conversation. "You rode gallantly today, Ser Sandor."

Sandor Clegane snarled at her. "Spare me your empty little compliments, girl … and your ser's. I am no knight. I spit on them and their vows. My brother is a knight. Did you see him ride today?"

"Yes," Sansa whispered, trembling. "He was …"

"Gallant?" the Hound finished.

He was mocking her, she realized. "No one could withstand him," she managed at last, proud of herself. It was no lie.

Sandor Clegane stopped suddenly in the middle of a dark and empty field. She had no choice but to stop beside him. "Some septa trained you well. You're like one of those birds from the Summer Isles, aren't you? A pretty little talking bird, repeating all the pretty little words they taught you to recite."

"That's unkind." Sansa could feel her heart fluttering in her chest. "You're frightening me. I want to go now."

"No one could withstand him," the Hound rasped. "That's truth enough. No one could ever withstand Gregor. That boy today, his second joust, oh, that was a pretty bit of business. You saw that, did you? Fool boy, he had no business riding in this company. No money, no squire, no one to help him with that armor. That gorget wasn't fastened proper. You think Gregor didn't notice that? You think Ser Gregor's lance rode up by chance, do you? Pretty little talking girl, you believe that, you're empty-headed as a bird for true. Gregor's lance goes where Gregor wants it to go. Look at me. Look at me!" Sandor Clegane put a huge hand under her chin and forced her face up. He squatted in front of her, and moved the torch close. "There's a pretty for you. Take a good long stare. You know you want to. I've watched you turning away all the way down the kingsroad. Piss on that. Take your look."

His fingers held her jaw as hard as an iron trap. His eyes watched hers. Drunken eyes, sullen with anger. She had to look.

The right side of his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a grey eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was large and hooked, his hair thin, dark. He wore it long and brushed it sideways, because no hair grew on the other side of that face.

The left side of his face was a ruin. His ear had been burned away; there was nothing left but a hole. His eye was still good, but all around it was a twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red and wet when he moved. Down by his jaw, you could see a hint of bone where the flesh had been seared away.

He saw the horror in her eyes and he laughed at it. "Some fools will tell you it was a battle. They look at me, see my size and my strength, and imagine that I'm a warrior." He laughed again. "I was only ten during the Greyjoy rebellion. Too young to fight. I've never seen a battle in my life. Never fought outside the training yard. People look at me and they see a killer, can't imagine anything else. I'll tell you the real story, though. A pretty little tale of knightly valor." The hate and bitterness in his voice made her want to cry. "It was ten years ago. I was a stupid little boy then. Stupider even than you, because I grew up with Gregor and I still didn't know any better. My head was filled with tales of gallant knights and valiant deeds. Well, even back then Gregor was a mean one. He was probably a killer too, even then, though I only had my suspicions; no proof. I came across him one day, looming over a sobbing girl. A pretty little thing, six, maybe seven. She didn't even reach his middle. He was holding her by the wrist, and she was struggling to get away. I knew he was going to do something awful. So I intervened, shouted at him and distracted him long enough for the girl to run off. Well, he didn't like that. There was a fire there he had been building and he didn't even hesitate. Picked me up under his arm and shoved the side of my face down in the burning coals and held me there while I screamed and screamed. You saw how strong he is. Even then, it took three grown men to drag him off- Little bird?"

He broke off from his monologue, finally seeming to realize that Sansa was holding his shoulder for support, her own legs having given out beneath her. The words of his story clamored in her head as black spots danced in front of her eyes. She thought he was saying something else, but whatever it was was drowned out by his voice in her head. "I came across him... looming over a sobbing girl... six, maybe seven... distracted him long enough for the girl to run off... shoved my face into the burning coals while I screamed..."

Her vision was tunneling. The last thing she saw before she lost consciousness was his scars.

His dear, perfect, heartrendingly beautiful scars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are adored and cherished. I would not have had the courage to post this chapter without the ones you left <3


	3. Connection

Sansa was being carried by a pair of strong arms, gently jostled in rhythm with the footsteps of the man carrying her.

Then, her father's voice, sounding angry. "Hound! What did you do to her?"

"Nothing!" Sandor Clegane's voice was part annoyed, part defensive. "The prince told me to escort her back. She fainted on the way. I had nothing to do with it." That was an untruth, but he probably didn't know it.

She was laid down gently on something soft- her bed. The warmth of the man who had been carrying her was retreating. Sansa forced her eyes open despite the dizziness. "Stay!" she cried, grabbing her savior's wrist. "Don't go yet!"

"Sansa, what happened?" her father cried.

"What is it, little bird?" asked the Hound.

She was not sure if their distress was a reaction to the fact that she had fainted or to the fact that tears that had begun to roll uncontrollably down her face from the moment she regained consciousness.

"The little girl," she whispered, turning to the Hound. "She was me."

He gaped at her for a moment. "Shit," he said emphatically, and he lowered himself heavily into the nearest chair, resting his head in his hands.

"What little girl?" Ned Stark was becoming agitated. "I don't understand."

"Father," said Sansa softly. "Do you remember the first time we came down south, just the two of us? I had wandered off and was accosted by a large boy, a younger boy distracted him and saved me, do you remember?"

"Aye," said Ned slowly.

"You wouldn't tell me what happened to the boy that rescued me, you said I was too young and that it would give me nightmares. I know now, though, what happened to him. He was burned, wasn't he? The other boy pushed his face into the fire."

Her father moved to look from her to Sandor Clegane. "Shit," he said too.

There was a long silence as each person was absorbed in their own thoughts.

"I should have known," her father said heavily, finally breaking the silence. "It had happened on Clegane lands. And Jory told me how the boy had half his face burnt off. I should have seen it immediately. I thought you had died, though," he said, turning to the Hound.

"And what made you think that?" The Hound's voice was mocking.

"I'd left a note to be given to you once you were well enough. A message with an offer to squire at Winterfell, or any other reward you would ask for. When I got no reply, after a few months, I assumed that you had succumbed to your injuries. Of course, I thought then that you were a commoner boy from the village, to whom the opportunity to become a squire would mean a big advancement in prospects. You probably already knew that Lannister would take you as squire, though. You had no need of such an offer. Still, an open offer of anything from Warden of the North. Was there nothing I could give you? Why did you never request a reward?"

"Didn't get the letter, now, did I?" the Hound replied irritably.

Sansa's father frowned. "I gave very clear instructions that a message was to be left for you. I recall being told that it had been done."

"My father could hardly let me read such a message," the Hound replied, the bitterness from earlier, when he had been telling his story, seeping back into his tone. "Couldn't risk me deciding to squire with some lord who knew what actually happened. Not when he had worked so hard to cover it all up."

"Cover what up?" Ned asked, eyes narrowed.

"The boy who attacked me was Gregor Clegane, Father," Sansa offered.

"Aye," the Hound growled. "His own son. With a war on the horizon and his big strong son set to fight among the best and bring the Clegane family some prestige, my father could hardly allow such an unfortunate little incident bring Gregor disgrace and derail that plan. He told everyone that I had been playing recklessly around a bonfire and had fallen in. Gregor went out, fought, and got knighted as planned. Not that my father got any joy of it in the end. He died soon after under suspicious circumstances. At least when he died, he had the pleasure of knowing that the son who killed him was a 'Ser'."

"He was no true knight," said Sansa softly.

The Hound laughed loudly at that, but Sansa did not see anything funny about it. Neither did her father. "He ought to be stripped of his knighthood," he said. "I shall speak to Robert about it."

"He won't do it," the Hound snorted. "As long as the Lannisters find my brother useful, they'll make it very unpleasant for the king to get rid of him. And Robert Baratheon doesn't do anything if it's unpleasant to him."

Sansa gasped at such a disrespectful statement, but she could not help but think that he was right in his assessment of the king. Her father, though, had known the king many years ago as a young man and did not seem convinced. But rather than argue, he turned to the Hound looking very serious. "This injustice has stood for far too long, and I have my share of responsibility for it. I will not allow it to stand any longer, not if I can help it."

The Hound shrugged with apparent indifference. Sansa knew why; the institution of knighthood no longer held any significance to him. It had already been tainted, years before.

"I know that it is too little, far too late," Ned continued gravely. "But if there is anything, any boon which is in my power to grant I would wish to give it to you."

The Hound darted a nervous glance in Sansa's direction, and she tried to look encouraging, but in the end he said, "Don't need any bloody favors."

"Father," Sansa said quickly before the Hound could offend her father enough for him to forget his gratitude, "May I have a minute alone with..." She trailed off. She could hardly call him 'The Hound' to his face and under the circumstances, calling him by the same name his brother held seemed horribly wrong. "...with Sandor?"

Her father raised his eyebrows slightly at the request as well as the familiar address, but Sansa maintained a confident and firm countenance. What she had to say to Sandor, after what he'd done for her- it was deeply personal. She did not want even her beloved father there to hear.

Finally, after holding her gaze for a few long moments, Sansa's father nodded, and left the room without a further word.

There was a moment of silence, as Sansa tried to gather her thoughts into something she could articulate.

"Well then?" Sandor barked impatiently, before Sansa had even come close to finding the words. "What did you want to say? Out with it!"

"I just- I wanted to thank..." Sansa trailed off, feeling horribly aware of the inadequacy of the words to express the depth of what she was feeling.

He began to laugh. "You wanted to thank me, girl? Is that it? Save it. You don't know what you're saying."

"Of course I do!" Sansa said indignantly. "If it hadn't been for you-"

"Do you know why I laughed, little bird," he cut her off, "when you told me that Gregor was no true knight?"

Sansa shook her head.

"It was because I knew that you were thinking that I was one. Rushing in bravely to save you like that. I'm not who you think I am, though."

"How do you mean?"

"I regretted it," Sandor said quietly, not meeting her eyes. "After what happened, I lay there in my bed for days, in perpetual agony, disfigured for life, and cursed the moment I saved you. I wished I had never heard your distressed little cry, that I had never tried to intervene, that I didn't just let Gregor have his way. That's what they don't tell you in your pretty little songs," his tone suddenly became angry again. "No man who survives the horrors they do in stories can stay pure and noble after. That's why there are no true knights. The boy who saved you, the one you wish to thank- he died on the day we first saw one another. All you have left now, is a scarred hound, and he doesn't want your thanks."

He had walked over to her as he spoke, and was now looming over her, pushing his scarred face far closer to hers than politeness should allow. The anger in his eyes was overwhelming, and Sansa was suddenly reminded of why she had been scared of him before that night. She had seen the heart of him, though. He had given her a glimpse of it as he drunkenly poured out his story earlier that night, and Sansa could no longer be frightened of him.

"I don't expect you to be the same as you were," she said softly. "You were a boy, then, and now you are a man and many horrible things have happened to you in between." Then, boldly, she lifted her hand to caress the scars that had once frightened her, but now seemed to her the legend to the kind of man he was. The undisguisable evidence of his courage and goodness . "I'm just so happy," her voice broke. "That you are here, that you are still alive. I feel as if I will burst if I do not express it. You may not wish for it, but you will always have my gratitude, and you need not live up to some ideal in order to receive it or be worthy of it. It will simply exist, acknowledged or not."

When he finally spoke after a long moment of silence, his voice was as gentle as she had ever heard it. "Sweet little bird. You ought to get some sleep," and he straightened up and left the room.

Sansa remained, sitting on the bed, examining the hand that had cradled his scars, and the clear wetness that had appeared on it as she had spoken.


	4. Courtship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In her own clumsy way, Sansa courts Sandor...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, two weeks of isolation and this is the result. I hope you enjoy!

It took her a while, but Sansa finally found Sandor Clegane in a shaded alcove in the gardens, accompanying the prince. Sansa wished that she could have run into him when he was alone, and then immediately felt guilty for wishing away her betrothed. 

After giving them both a quick courtesy and the obligatory polite greeting, Sansa turned to her savior. "This is for you," she said, nervously thrusting her gift into his hand.

"What is it?" he asked, holding it up and examining it suspiciously as if it were a baby dragon rather than a wineskin. 

"It's wine," Sansa replied. "Dornish red. I wanted to give you something, only I don't know what kinds of things you like, but judging by last night I thought you probably like wine so I got you some." Well, she hadn't exactly purchased it, since she wasn't allowed out of the Keep unaccompanied, but she had had to search for the kitchen, and ask many people for directions though they had all looked at her strangely, and then she'd had to figure out what kind of wine was the right one, and all in all she thought the effort she had put in showed quite as much consideration as the purchasing of a present.

"Is this your idea of attempting to repay me?" he asked her sardonically, and though Sansa knew he was mocking her, she could not help but answer him seriously. "Of course not! That is not the kind of thing that can ever be repaid! I merely wished to do something to make you happy."

"What's going on here?" Joffrey asked, intruding on their private conversation. "What are you repaying him for, Sansa?"

Sansa contemplated her answer for a long moment. She did not wish to tell Joffrey the story of the Hound's scars. She didn't like the disrespectful way he referred to Sandor as his dog or his callous attitude towards the many things she found important. The history she shared with Sandor Clegane was precious to her, and she didn't wish to have it open to his mocking and derisive comments.

"I am grateful for his walking me back to my rooms last night," Sansa replied. A true statement, if one that would give Joffrey the wrong impression. 

"I'm the one who ordered him to do it," Joffrey said petulantly.

"And he is the one who expended the effort on my behalf," Sansa retorted calmly. "I wish you both a good day."

She curtsied and left.

* * *

It was a week later, as Sansa was listening to Sandor explain the importance of footwork in sword-fighting that they were interrupted by Joffrey throwing a fit. Or, rather, Sansa had been trying to listen to what Sandor had to say, but was having trouble ignoring Joffrey's impatient huffs and noises of discontent. 

"You talk to my Hound more than you talk to me!" he finally snapped, when he saw that neither Sansa nor Sandor intended to respond to his semi-silent pouting. 

"Pardon me, my lord," said Sansa demurely. "As the subject at hand was swordplay, I did not presume you to have any interest in the discussion."

"I'm the future king!" he declared, his face beginning to redden. "I know all about swordplay!"

"My deepest pardons for assuming the subject did not interest you," said Sansa pleasantly. "I had simply never seen you at practice. Whereas Clegane can be found at the training yard most mornings."

She knew that she was only exacerbating his annoyance, but Joffrey had spoken of Sandor dismissively as his dog not ten minutes past, and Sansa couldn't find it in herself to care if she was now offending him.

Joffrey's face reddened even further, and as his face twisted in a scowl, Sansa was startled to discover that she found him rather ugly. 

"I could ask my Hound to hit you," he hissed at her, green eyes glittering with malice. "And he'd do it. He's _my_ dog, don't forget that!"

"He is a most loyal servant," said Sansa quickly. "Just as I am your most loyal betrothed. I apologize for speaking hastily, my love, of matters of which I know nothing. Please forgive me."

Thankfully, her show of humility seemed to placate him. After making a sneering remark about her stupidity, he seemed to let the matter go. Grabbing onto her elbow rather harshly, he tugged her to walk by his side and began to tell her of all the fool knights he had beaten in the training yard at various times. Sansa gave a breath of relief.

It was not that she was worried that the Hound would actually hit her if Joffrey demanded it, but she wanted to avoid putting him in the awkward situation of needing to disobey the prince. 

The Hound avoided her eye and her attention for the rest of the day, but an hour later, when Joffrey was a ways off, showing off his skills with a crossbow to her while Sansa sat on a blanket in the shade, clapping mechanically for every shot, whether it was a good one or off mark, he approached her quietly from behind, muttering when he was near enough to be heard: "He was right, girl. You're the prince's betrothed. You shouldn't be talking to me."

"I want to talk to you," she replied, not turning around to look at him, despite the almost unbearable awareness of the warmth of his presence behind her.

"Then at least have the sense to do it when he isn't around," he snarled at her. "You don't want him angry at you."

"At night? When are you relieved from your duty?"

"Hour after sundown."

"I like to go pray in the godswood sometimes," she told him quietly. "It's as good a place to meet as any."

"Aye."

It was not a promise or a commitment that he would come, but Sansa chose to interpret it as such. 

* * *

She was not wrong. 

She had barely been in the forest for two minutes when he showed up. He glared at her, as if she had somehow forced him to come, but then made a gesture with his hand as if to say I'm here, now what?

Sansa was rather used to men beginning conversations with her, whether she was interested or not, and panicked at the realization that she was now expected to introduce a topic. It was not generally a task she had trouble with, but she had never met a person as antagonistic towards polite courtesies as Sandor Clegane, and she simply could not imagine making small talk with him. 

"Tell me more," she finally requested. "About the importance of footwork while fighting with swords."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You found that interesting, did you? Would have thought that was more your sister's territory than yours."

Internally, Sansa winced at her weak opening, but she maintained a bold facade. "Maybe I just wanted to hear how that story about the knight from Maidenpool ends."

"It ends with him falling face first into a pile of horseshit," Sandor scoffed. Then, seeing Sansa's shock at his language, something in his face seemed to soften, and he gave a little smirk. "It was bloody funny, come to think of it. Especially after all the bragging he had done that morning, talking about his training regimen, and how his special diet made him faster than any of the fighters. After that happened, Lannister began calling him 'Ser Brown-Nose the Shit Eater'. Jaime, that is. The small one would no doubt have come up with something wittier."

Sansa clapped her hands over her mouth in horror, hoping it hid her smile. 

"You think that's bad?" Sandor said, a glint in his eye. "You should hear what we called the knight whose mother used to come to the training yard to cheer him on." He glanced at Sansa slyly. "Might be I shouldn't tell you, on account you're a lady. It might be too much for your delicate nerves."

"Oh no, please tell me!" Sansa begged, and Sandor Clegane obliged.

By the time half an hour had passed, Sansa had given up on trying to project ladylike disapproval, laughing openly at the slightly bawdy stories he was telling her in exchange for her tamer ones about her brothers and sister back home.

"...and he was so angry, he punched the stone wall. Broke three of his fingers, idiot. Never seen a worse sore loser in all my life, excepting maybe Joffrey. Now there's a whiny little run if ever I saw one. It's a wonder he can take a piss without his mother holding his cock for him."

"Don't exaggerate," Sansa snorted. "She only wipes for him."

And they both burst into gales of laughter. 

A few moments later, though, as the laughter began to subside, Sansa suddenly caught herself. "I shouldn't have said that," she frowned.

"Suppose not," he replied heavily. "Probably shouldn't have said what I did either."

"I didn't mean it," Sansa whispered, horrified at herself. "I love-" but she choked, unable to finish that sentence.

She did not love Joffrey. She suddenly realized that she hadn't for a very long time, not since Lady had been killed. Perhaps she had not loved him even before that, only convinced herself that she had. Still, she had not admitted it out loud, or even to herself, out of a stubborn loyalty to her betrothed and to her duty. It was only now, upon Sandor's revelation, that she could no longer hold on to that loyalty. She had discovered within herself a greater loyalty to the man sitting next to her. He had saved her life, and in the process marred his own forever. A connection such as that seemed more profound than the mere words between her father and the king that had tied her to Joffrey. 

The size that Sandor had taken up in her life had swiftly blotted out the thin tie to Joffrey, and Sansa could see clearly that she had known the following for quite a while: Joffrey was petty, cruel and tyrannical. She did not love him, and never could.

She could not love him, but she had to marry him nevertheless. She would no doubt spend the rest of her life being treated by him as Queen Cersei was treated by her husband.

"Are you alright, little bird?"

Only when Sandor asked that, did Sansa realize that there were silent tears making their way down her face. "I don't want to marry him," she whispered. 

He gaped at her, frozen in indecision in the face of her declaration. 

"Do you hear me?" she demanded. "I don't want to marry him!". And she began to cry in earnest. Not silent tears anymore, but big, heaving sobs that made breathing difficult.

Conscious of the fact that no one looked attractive when they cried, and conscious also of not wanting Sandor to see her looking ugly, Sansa had buried her face in her hands almost immediately when the sobs came. Therefore, it came as a surprise when a big but gentle hand rested on her shoulder. 

"I don't blame you girl," he said quietly. "I wouldn't want to marry him either if I were in your place." Then, after a moment's hesitation- "Your father seems a good man. Maybe if you talked to him- it's clear he cares for you. Perhaps he would call off the engagement."

Sansa shook her head. "Joffrey is the crown prince, the future king of the realm. There would be political consequences far beyond my private life if I attempted such a thing. And my father is already so stressed by his work as Hand, I can't add to his worries. Would it not be terribly selfish to insist on having my way when it would negatively affect my whole family?"

"I would do anything to get out of it if I were in your place," Sandor replied. "But then, I've never loved my family like you do yours."

Sansa knew that wasn't true, though. Sandor had once sacrificed himself for the sake of a complete stranger. He might have become bitter and hardened, but deep inside him was a courage and goodness that Sansa would never again be unaware of. That was the kind of person she aspired to be. As easy and comfortable as her life had been so far, Sansa hoped that in a time of trial she could prove as brave as Sandor and do the right thing. Therefore, she only said, "I am not the first woman to marry a man she does not love, and I won't be the last, either. It's just a fact of life I need to accept."

He sighed. "Fucking unfair, life is, eh? Come, have you calmed down now? I'll walk you to your rooms."

* * *

"Have you been crying?!" Arya demanded, the minute she set eyes on Sansa.

Sansa internally cursed Sandor. She had been worried about how obvious it was that she had been crying, but when she had asked Sandor how she looked before they parted he had only growled at her that she looked as pretty as always and to stop fishing for compliments.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she told Arya primly.

"Liar!" Arya scoffed. "Your eyes are all red and I can still see the tear stains on your face."

"Leave it be, Arya!" Sansa shouted, loudly enough to summon Ned into the room looking exhausted and harried.

"Girls, will you-" but then he laid eyes on Sansa. "Sansa, are you alright? Why were you crying?"

"I'm alr- al-" but Sansa found she couldn't get the sentence out for fear of bursting into tears again. 

Ned's eyes softened, and Arya was summarily sent out of the room, leaving Sansa alone with her father. 

It took some considerable wheedling until Sansa finally told her father what the matter was. She had solemnly repeated to her father the reasons she had given Sandor- about not wanting to add to her father's troubles when he had so many other concerns, but her father merely laughed such reasoning off.

"Sansa, the thought of you being miserable is far worse to me than any of the other matters that concern me in my role as hand. You'll understand when you become a mother yourself- nothing is worse to a parent than their child's misery. Go on, tell me. There is nothing better you can do to ease my mind."

"It's Joffrey," Sansa finally whispered. "I feel like I can't bear to marry him."

She peeked up at her father to see if he seemed angry or surprised, but he only looked pensive. "What changed?" he asked her, after a moment's contemplation. "You seemed so excited to marry him. Even after- well, what happened with Lady, it seemed to me like you wanted to marry him."

"I- well, I began feeling a bit wrong about the whole thing a while ago. Especially after what happened at the Crossroads. I tried not to linger on it too much, though. I didn't want to be negative, so I tried to focus on the good things and ignore what bothered me. After I found out about what San- I mean, the Hound, what he did for me. It got me thinking- I was just a stranger he didn't know, but Sandor stepped in to save me. But Joffrey- I'm his betrothed, not some stranger, and he wouldn't even make a move to spare Lady even though she was innocent and I was so sad over it. He didn't have to sacrifice anything like Sandor did, he only did it out of spite. It was just such a contrast seeing how a good man acts and how Joffrey does. I can't ignore it anymore, it comes up into my brain every time that I look at him, and I can't make myself not think about it. I'm sorry, I know you made the engagement because you thought it would make me happy, and it did. But I didn't know enough then, and now I hate that I need to marry him."

"I don't like that boy either," Ned told Sansa, taking her hand in his and patting it. "He's not good enough for you, my sweet girl. You have so much love to give, and he can't appreciate the gift that it is."

Feeling comforted by this validation, Sansa buried her head affectionately into her father's shoulder. 

"No, I don't like that boy at all. And I certainly don't like the thought of you being miserable. I'll talk to Robert about having the engagement called off."

"But won't that cause problems- politically?" Sansa asked. "Won't the king be angry?"

"Let me worry about that," her father said soothingly. Then, slightly hesitantly, he added- "It is quite a delicate situation, though, to maneuver. I would rather not have any surprises sprung on me. So if there is anyone whom you have formed an attachment to, whom you hope to marry instead of Joffrey, I should like to know about it now, before speaking to Robert."

"Oh, well, there is- there is someone," Sansa blushed. "But we do not have an understanding or anything of the sort. I do not know if he would be interested."

"Oh, he'll be interested," Ned said, sounding tired. "Out with it, then- who is it?"

"Sandor Clegane," Sansa admitted.

"As I expected," her father sighed. "Sansa, I feel I must ask you- and I want you to think about the question seriously before responding- are you certain what you feel for him is affection, rather than a debt of gratitude? Marrying someone to whom you feel indebted can easily make you as miserable as any bad marriage."

"Of course I feel grateful to him," Sansa replied. "But that isn't the basis for my feelings for him. He's a good man, and he's brave, and I so admire him. When I talk to him, I don't feel self conscious like I do with Joffrey. I feel completely at ease, like I am home."

Ned nodded. "Those are good reasons to want to marry someone. What about the scars?"

"What about them?" Sansa asked, with an anger born mostly of the guilt she felt over her initial reaction to the scars, before she knew their story. "How can you speak about the scars like they're a flaw to be borne rather than a mark of his goodness and courage?"

"Sansa, you can hardly bear to look at an open cut when your sister scrapes her knee," Ned replied, with a tone of utmost patience. "It isn't unreasonable for me to wonder about your reaction to the scars."

"I don't mind the scars," Sansa replied confidently. 

"Very well then," her father replied. "I'll speak with Clegane tomorrow. If his wishes align with your own, it will inform my strategy in addressing Robert. An unpaid debt by house Stark, perhaps. Something along those lines."

"Do you really think it can be done?" Sansa asked, seeking reassurance.

"It will be tricky, but it is doable. If I must, I can always remind the king of another Stark girl who a prince once desired. He should know better than anyone that the prince is not always the right choice and that affections cannot be forced. In the meantime, I do not wish you to worry about it. Go to sleep now, Sansa. When I have news to tell, you will hear it."

* * *

The next day, during the late morning, Sandor Clegane stormed into Sansa's room without so much as a knock on the door. 

"Your father's just been to see me," he told Sansa. "So much for not asking him to cancel the engagement, eh? You could have at least given me some indication that you were planning to rope me into it."

Sansa put down her sewing. "He saw that I had been crying, and wouldn't rest until I told him what the problem was. Once I told him, he decided to call off the engagement of his own initiative. So I didn't ask him. As for roping you-" she lowered her eyes- "The engagement would be called off either way. You don't need to be a part of this unless you want to."

"Of course I fucking-" and he cut himself off with a growl of frustration. Sansa watched with trepidation as he paced up and down her room in a state of agitation. "Curse me for a bloody fool, but I'm going to say it."

He turned and looked her in the face. "You don't need to marry me because you feel grateful, little bird. You don't owe me your hand because I saved you when I was a foolish runt anymore than you've owed me the conversation or company you've been giving me since the moment you found out. I release you from your debt. There. Done. You're free."

"I didn't tell my father I wished to marry you because I felt indebted to you," Sansa replied stubbornly. "I don't care if there's a debt or not, I would want to marry you either way." She would have said that she wished to marry him because he was a good man, but she had a feeling he would scoff at her if she did.

"You force yourself to marry someone who is repulsive to you, little bird, and you'll come to hate it very very soon. You'll come to hate me soon, too, no matter what you think now. Do you want to be stuck with a husband whose face disgusts you? Because I don't want to be stuck with a wife who flinches whenever she looks at me."

"Your scars don't disgust me," Sansa said firmly. She tentatively raised her hand and put it on Sandor's burnt cheek. "Did you see me flinch?"

He wordlessly shook his head.

"I'm not flinching now, either," Sansa informed him, leaning further in and pressing a kiss to his burnt cheek. Tentatively, heart beating like mad, Sansa trailed kisses all over the burns, from the cheek up to the temple, straying a bit to the place beneath his ear, or what was left of it, and then inward to where the bone showed, daringly close to the corner of his mouth. 

When she pulled away to meet his eyes, all the agitation seemed to have gone out of them. "Little bird," he said quietly, "I can hardly feel anything on that side of my face."

"Oh," Sansa considered this for a moment. "I could repeat it all on the other side. So you know what I'd been doing."

Sandor said nothing, but allowed her to turn his face and press soft kisses to his cheek, and then trailing them up to his temple, mirroring her earlier path on the scars. When she reached the corner of his mouth, where the burns were the worst on the other side, she made to pull back, but Sandor's hand came up to keep her head in place. Then her face was being tilted, and ever so slowly Sandor slotted his mouth against her own. 

When Sansa read about people kissing in her favorite stories, she always assumed that it was done because it was a suitably romantic and loving gesture. She had never imagined that the kiss itself would feel so intense, so good. She hadn't known that kissing could make one's heart race, one's stomach clench, and one's hips feel oddly restless. And goodness! She certainly hadn't known about that bit with the tongue! 

When Sansa finally pulled away, she was panting like she had just run a mile, and beaming at Sandor with everything she had. 

Sandor's hand remained in Sansa's hair, and he played with it gently as he told her, "No woman has ever wanted her mouth anywhere near _this_ before." He gestured at his scars.

"Of course not," Sansa replied fondly. "They're _my_ scars." Only she truly knew what the scars meant. "They're a sign to the world that you're meant for me," she explains confidently. "And that I'm the only woman who is meant to be kissing you."

Sandor's lips twitched. "Well, if you don't mind me being the only man who kisses you in turn, I suppose I'll tell your father that we mean to marry."

"Oh, good," said Sansa. "I like kissing you."


	5. Solution

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrapping things up...

The urgent summons of Ned Stark to the king that morning had Sansa on edge. 

When her father had returned from his meeting with King Robert the day before, he had told a much relieved Sansa that the king had, albeit reluctantly, assented to Ned's request to call off the betrothal. His only request had been that the decision be kept private for the time being until a strategy could be decided upon regarding how to frame the decision in a way that would not reflect poorly on the royal family or cause the prince humiliation.

Sansa had been feeling supremely optimistic and hopeful, right until the moment that two members of the Kingsguard had come to escort her father to the king at an hour far earlier than that in which Robert usually woke, considering his drinking habits. Had the king changed his mind? Would Sansa be accused of treachery? Would her father? Would Sansa be forced to marry Joffrey?

The suspense was almost unbearable, but thankfully, it did not last more than an hour. Soon enough, Sansa heard footsteps down the hall and another sound- was that _whistling_? And Ned Stark strolled into the room looking happier than Sansa had seen him since they had left Winterfell.

"What did the king want?" Sansa asked anxiously, refusing to be reassured by her father's good mood until she knew for certain what had been discussed.

"Well," said Ned, a slow smile coming to his face, "Robert finally told Cersei about our plan to call off the betrothal."

"Oh," said Sansa, bringing a hand to her mouth. "Was she very angry?"

"Oh, she was furious." Ned's smile only became wider. "Absolutely livid that someone would dare not wish to be married to her son."

"Oh dear," Sansa whispered.

"She was so furious, in fact, that she emphatically insisted that I be dismissed from my role as Hand of the King and sent back up north in disgrace. If it looks as though I've displeased the king somehow, everyone will think that he was the one to cancel the betrothal. That way, dear prince Joffrey won't be humiliated. Also, to be honest, Cersei never wanted me here in the first place. She absolutely refuses to have me or you in court after this insult. She must have made herself very unpleasant indeed, because Robert capitulated to her. He called me in this morning to give me the news himself." Ned laughed and shook his head. "The bastard had the nerve to sound apologetic while telling me!"

"So we're going home?" Sansa asked.

"We're going home. With a certain scarred former Lannister man in tow, of course. You can be the one to give him the news," Ned replied.

"Oh," said Sansa, and a smile began to form on her face as well.

"Terrible punishment for all of us, really," her father said, giving her a wink. Then, he became more serious for a moment. "I will admit that I do worry about who will take over the role of Hand. There was also the matter of a more personal investigation I had been undertaking, regarding the circumstance of Jon Arryn's death. I told Robert everything that I knew, and urged him to continue pursuing the matter, but I know his natural inclinations tend towards lethargy. I do not know if he will want to take the trouble. Still, I hope he has enough respect and love for Jon to follow up on the information I have given him."

"I'm sure he will," said Sansa optimistically.

Ned shrugged and sighed, but then brightened. "Even if he does not, the important thing is that the Stark family will be united once again. In Winterfell, where we belong. You know, now that you are betrothed to a good man whom you rather like, you might want to be giving some thought to expanding the family in the near future."

"I've already given it some thought," Sansa replied with dignity. "And I've decided that Sandor and I will outdo even yourself and mother in our family-expanding contributions."

"I do believe Theon and Jon ought to count in our tally," Ned said mischievously. "Catelyn and I did raise them after all."

That was cheating, but Sansa didn't care. "Even then," she said confidently.

* * *

Around the same time, Sandor Clegane was standing in front of Cersei Lannister in her rooms, listening patiently as she spat invective at Ned Stark, his daughter, and all the people of the north. 

"...And that little bitch daughter of his! All sweet and innocent with her little courtesies. I haven't yet decided if she's a conniving little bitch or if she's truly as stupid as she seems." Behind his back, Sandor's fists clenched. Cersei, too wrapped up in her own indignation, never noticed his anger. "The nerve of Stark! To think his daughter is too good for my Joffrey! And using such a weak excuse as a newly-discovered debt to you! You admit yourself you hadn't known the little girl you'd saved all those years ago was Sansa."

Sandor inclined his head in assent.

"His arrogance is disgusting," Cersei spat. "Still, it will be to our advantage that Stark finds himself too high and mighty to marry into the Lannisters. My Joffrey was always too good for that girl. Besides, he's finally provided me with the perfect excuse to get rid of him. Littlefinger has given me some indication that Stark has been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong. By proving his treachery, he's given me the perfect opportunity to have him sent back to that wasteland he calls home."

She gave Sandor a sly glance. "I hear it's to be your home too, from now on."

"I hear the same," Sandor replied.

"It'll be useful for us to have a loyal Lannister man in the Stark household," Cersei commented, in a note meant to sound offhand. "Letting us know if Stark begins sending or receiving any suspicious ravens. Keep in mind, Hound, that Robert won't be king forever. If, in the future, Ned Stark would be revealed to be involved in some treachery, you could very well find yourself in the position of Warden of the North."

Sandor nodded, to show that he had understood her rather blatant hint. Internally, he wondered what in Westeros made her think he would be interested in the position of Warden of the North. 

All he said, though, was, "It seems like this move by Stark will play to the advantage of us both." The biggest advantage to Sandor, of course, being freedom from the fucking Lannisters. No, that wasn't true; the biggest advantage was the little bird. Not having to spend time around Joffrey or Cersei anymore was just a very pleasant bonus. 

He stood patiently for a few minutes more, grunting vague agreements at Cersei as she spewed nasty suggestions and sly innuendos. Finally, at long last, he was dismissed, and Sandor left the room, trying not to look like he was in as big a hurry to leave as he was.

* * *

"Back to Winterfell, eh?" Sandor asked, when Sansa came to him to tell him the news, not knowing he had already had it from Cersei and the king.

"Do you mind?" Sansa asked, suddenly hesitant. "It didn't occur to me that what seemed like such wonderful news might not be as favorably viewed by you. Will you very much miss King's Landing?"

Sandor snorted. "I'd rather freeze my balls off married to you, then spend any more time in warm weather guarding that whiny pisser. Besides, this city smells like shit."

"You're not unhappy, then?" Sansa asked anxiously. 

Sandor reached out his hand to hold hers, and then tugged at her until she was seated on his lap. "Little bird, I'm happier now than I've been for a very long time. Don't waste your time worrying your pretty little head over such things."

There was more he wanted to say, but a long-ingrained instinct caused him to hesitate. He reminded himself, though, that certain thoughts and feelings he had taught himself to view as weaknesses, that would certainly have been viewed as such by his old masters, were not seen that way by Sansa. The reason she wanted him in the first place was the fact that she viewed his foolish attempts at heroism as a child as courageous and noble rather than idiotic. Her affection for him spoke to a part of him he had thought long buried that wished to be a brave man, a good man. 

So he told Sansa what was on his mind. "Nothing good would have come of me continuing to serve the Lannisters. Those people will bring out the worst in anyone. They brought out the worst in me. I'm well-rid of them." Then, he squeezed her hips playfully. "Thankfully, this dog now has a kind and sweet little mistress instead."

"Don't say that!" Sansa scolded. "You are not a dog, and I am not your mistress. I am your betrothed, and you are mine."

"Sure you're not my mistress?" Sandor teased. "I was just ordered to follow you up north not an hour ago. No one consulted me on the matter, either. Seems to me as if you give out the orders here."

"I didn't order anything," Sansa replied loftily. "I am merely rectifying the mistakes of the past." She brought a hand up to caress his cheek. "You ought to have come to Winterfell with us from the very beginning. I'm only bringing you back to where you belong."

Sandor laughed. "Amongst Direwolves and little birds."

"Amongst family," Sansa corrected. 

"If you say so; amongst family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter- epilogue!


	6. Epilogue

A little girl, almost six years of age, ran across the courtyard towards her father. She was a pretty little thing, with her red hair and blue eyes, and her father was proudly aware of her perfection as she ran up to him and raised up her arms to be held. Indulgently, he picked her up under her armpits, hoisting her up into the air until she squealed with fright, and then lowering her to settle against his chest, arms around his neck. 

"What have you been up to, birdling?" he asked her. "I thought you were playing with your brother."

"I was, but Rory was being very naughty," she informed him, eyes glittering with delight at the prospect of her brother getting into trouble.

"Oh? What did he do?" Sandor asked. 

"He was telling tall tales," Eleanora told him primly.

"Is that so? What did he say?"

"He said that Aunt Arya used to be the queen of Westeros!" Eleanora informed him disdainfully. "He must be stupid if he think I'll believe that!"

Sandor had to chuckle. "He told you true, Nora," he said. "Barely a lady she might be, but your aunt was once the queen, before Daenerys." 

"Really?" her big blue eyes widened. "Aunt Arya? How?"

"She married your uncle Gendry when he was king," Sandor explained, preparing to impart a history lesson. 

"Uncle Gendry isn't a king, he's a blacksmith!"

"He grew up as a blacksmith once, and now he's one again, but in between what happened was this: the king who came before, Robert, found out that the children of the queen, who he thought were his, were actually bastards."

"Bastards?" Unlike the little bird, Nora hadn't grown up with the presence of a bastard weighing over her parents' relationship. She didn't know the word. 

"It means that the children weren't really the children of Robert. Even though Robert was married to queen Cersei the father of the children was... someone else. So the children of the queen couldn't be heirs to the throne, and Robert had to look for a different heir. Now, Robert had some bastards of his own- children he'd made with other women, and Gendry was one of them. King Robert liked Gendry best of them all, because he looked most like him, so he decided that Gendry would be the next king. So your uncle went from being a plain blacksmith to heir to the throne.

"Around that same time, King Robert, who was a close friend of your father's, thought it would be a good idea if your aunt Arya married his son Gendry."

He had liked it even better, in fact, than the idea of Sansa marrying Joffrey. With how much Gendry resembled a young Robert, and Arya a young Lyanna, Robert was trying to live vicariously through his newly discovered son. Still, Ned had been far more wary the second time around and had refused to commit to a betrothal. Rather, he had agreed to come for a visit and let Arya get to know Gendry and decide from there.

"As you can imagine, your aunt Arya didn't at all want to be queen, and made that very clear, but after she got to know Gendry she told your grandpa Ned that Gendry is a good friend when he's not being stupid and that she wouldn't mind spending some time in King's Landing. What happened then is that Robert died much sooner than was expected, and Gendry became king. Arya loved your uncle Gendry by this point, and said that she couldn't leave the poor stupid sod to be king alone without her support, so she married him and became queen.

"They both hated it, of course, and as soon as Queen Danaereys came along they were only too happy to negotiate peace by giving her the crown bloodlessly in exchange for help in the war beyond the wall. So your Aunt Arya and your Uncle Gendry were free to come back up north and become the master at arms and the blacksmith of Winterfell respectively. If Gendry really wants to annoy Arya, though, he will call her 'Your Majesty'. Surest way to fire her up."

Nora, however, was far less interested in the politics of Westeros or the marriage dynamics of her aunt and uncle than she was in the worrying bit of information her father had revealed to her. "King Robert found out that his babies were really the children of someone else," she said fearfully. "Is it possible that you and Mama would suddenly find out that you aren't my real parents?"

Sandor suppressed the urge to laugh, since distressed as she was with the ideas, she would not take well to being made fun of. "Of course you're your Mama's daughter," he said fondly. "You're her spitting image. Besides, I saw her carry you around in her stomach for nine months."

"And you? Are you for sure my real Papa?"

Sandor took a strand of red hair in his hand and tugged it lightly. "Do you know what the northmen say about red hair?"

Eleanora shook her head.

"Kissed by fire," Sandor informed her. "You are kissed by fire, and so is your mama. Now, see this?" He took her little hand in his and brought it up to his burnt, scarred cheek. 

"Your burns," exclaimed Nora with dawning understanding.

"I was kissed by fire too. These scars are how your mother first knew that I was meant to be her husband. They're a sign that your mother and I are meant to be together. So I never need to worry about whether you're my child. Because I'm hers, and she's mine."

"Kissed by fire," Nora murmured, holding up a fiery curl against her father's burnt cheek. 

"I'd rather be kissed by Nora," he replied. His smiling daughter obliged, pressing a smacking kiss against his cheek. 

* * *

"You were quiet this evening," Sansa remarked to her husband as they got into bed that night. 

"I was thinking," he replied gruffly. 

Thinking he did not wish to be questioned further, Sansa decided to let it go, at least for the moment, and settled into bed without saying anything more on the matter. Suddenly, though, she found herself being spun around to face her husband as he took her hand in his large one. 

"Little bird," he said, pressing her hand to his ruined cheek. "I told you once, that first time we talked, that I regretted what I did that gave me these scars. I don't anymore. Haven't for a long time. Tell me you know it."

"Sandor," she beamed at him through watery eyes, caressing his burns gently. "Of course I know it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading this story! If you'd like to tell me what you thought, I'd love to read your comment😊


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